Mortal Pursuit

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Cain pulled on the black ski mask and checked the pistol’s clip.

Seventeen rounds. He nodded, satisfied.

“Rack ‘em back.”

Five clicks as the slides were cycled on five Glock 17s, his own and four others, each feeding a 9mm Black Talon round into the chamber.

“Let’s move.”

He slung a black duffel bag over his shoulder and headed out of the clearing, pursued by a low tramp of boots.

Moisture fogged the air, a breath of mist carried from the lake. The buzz-hum of every cicada, the rustle of every leaf, was sharp in the stillness. There was no other sound, even on a Saturday night in August-no traffic noise, no car alarms or boom boxes, not even the distant barking of a dog.

Cain thought of the places he had lived when he hadn’t been in prison, the one-room holes in urban war zones where the thump and howl of ghetto music chased a man even in his dreams.

Nothing like that here. This was a peaceful place.

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